


The Worst Idea They've Ever Had

by DaLaRi



Series: These Kids Have To Learn There Are Consequences [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Copying This From My Google Drive Before SESTA Gets It Deleted, Crowley And Aziraphale Are Not White, I Lied About Regretting Nothing, I REGRET NOTHING, M/M, Porn With Plot, Very much a WIP, edit: sorry about the caps i guess the tag is Like That, exhibition kink, in progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 10:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16973052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaLaRi/pseuds/DaLaRi
Summary: Follows the events of Do You Remember.Will add better summary as it gets edited into something more presentable. Crowley and Az get shunted back in time to the Garden of Eden. Aziraphale is the worst non-human person alive and I hate writing him and his terrible ideas. This was supposed to be a plot fic.





	The Worst Idea They've Ever Had

**Author's Note:**

> Writers Reference Notes that may be of some enrichment to readers:
> 
> "  
> faceclaims/influences for aziraphale- richard ayoade, jim parsons, charles dance, frasier and niles crane  
> faceclaims/influences for crowley- sendhil rammurthy, dirk gently, aesthetically elements of tan france, frasier crane, newton geiszler
> 
> idk, they’re both distinct, idiotic characters in my head
> 
> premise: aziraphale and crowley, following the events of Do You Remember, get sent back in time to the Beginning. they’re not pleased, and G-d is Amused by the messy bit of magic that sent them back. He contemplates having them Start Over on their memories, but decides to let them keep things as they are. A courtesy memo is sent to the Downstairs Offices, along with a Do Not Touch warning, to be Enforced Instantaneously Be Permanent Erasure by He Who Exists At All Points In Time. G-d makes a jenga joke, but neither crowley nor Aziraphale feel confident enough in their situation to ask Him to elaborate on it.  
> "

They get to the Garden, they’ve been shunted back to right after Azi gave Eve the Sword, the conversation that Az would have had w G-d was the one special featured in the Buggre Alle This Bible, the “i’ll forget my own head next,” except this time G-d had transferred Aziraphale, at least in His Own Mind, from faulty pillar of the universe and minor disappointment if you think about him (which you won’t) to Interesting Diversion. this classification was extended to his lover Crowley, who had tried to edge Aziraphale behind him when G-d had approached, even though the form he was wearing (and they were a fortuitously close match to the ones He had crafted for the two of them at the start, he wouldn’t have noticed except He Did) was several inches smaller than the taller angel. they had also seemed discomfited with not being able to dislocate their wings to another plane, an idea which, up until that point, hadn’t been thought of yet. it made them look more like humans, and mentally, G-d scrapped the whole wheel of fire idea. In the Present (which both Did and Did Not exist at the time), the creator of the butterfly effect sneezed, blinked, and winked out of existence. G-d frowned and then put him back.

“this is going to be more trouble than it’s worth” he says to the clouds in a language they have not had the chance to forget yet. they rumbled again with oomph, and promptly started pissing down rain.

az and crow are in the Garden, headed back to their tree overlooking both the Tree and the Gate, and Crowley is halfway between hysterical laughter, spitting fury, and a too-much-has-happened-today Untouchableness. He had never met Himself before, and he laughs one more time before stepping on the tip of his wing and in a flail of limbs, ending up propped up with his back against the tree. he thumps his head back and laughs.

“we really got ourselves into this one, didn’t we, angel,” he says, and looks up when Aziraphale doesn’t immediately respond

aziraphale, however, is fuming. he is outraged and Pissed Off. he is pissed off by the magic that sent them there, he’s pissed off by the fact that they didn’t figure out who did it, he is pissed off to have had to talk to G-d again in a conversation he hated, he’s miserable to be back to when heaven was pretty much just earth, he’s furious to exist before the creation of sweater vests, and he’s still riding the adrenaline high from earlier from when they’d been summoned back in the present and promptly captured. by a doomsday cult of some description, no less!! he seethes with the indignity!!

 _“we_ didn’t get ourselves into anything,” he snipes, shrugging his shoulders, which cause rainstrops to cascade off his coat. “now come on. we’re doing ourselves no favors standing out here in the damp, especially since the first creator of the suits you like won’t be around for roughly five thousand years.” there’s a peevishness in his voice that causes crowley to look up at him over the tops of his shades and thunk his head back once again.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “me too.”

aziraphale sits down next to him. his coat, already sodden, squishes when he sits on it.

“i’m so frustrated i could tear my FEATHERS out, pardon my language, my dear.”

crowley’s nudge of acknowledgement soothes him a bit.

“it’s just that, one,” he gestures fiercely with an index finger, “we were _so_ close to finding out who captured you the first time, and _two,_ things were just settling back to normal, and _three,”_ his wings are rustling with indignation, “IT WAS A SODDING DOOMSDAY CULT.” he thumps back against the tree, halfway to a sulk already.

“i know,” crowley says, “trying day.” azi’s not yet done.

“and, _and_ ,” aziraphale is on a roll, and crowley’s eyes are closed, soaking in the rare occurrence of aziraphale truly _losing it._ “ _and_ they had the indignity to send us back to before any of our fashion choices had consequence. crowley, i _thrifted_ for this sweater vest. you were _there!”_

crowley hmms. “you went willingly, too.”

 _“willingly_ ?” aziraphale’s pitch is headed for the inaudible. “i _dragged you out of the store_ to hunt down another one from the 60s because mine had worn through, and we spent a _whole day out of the shop_ because of it! who knows what could have happened!”

crowley, all at once, senses that maybe aziraphale _is_ on the verge of an anxiety attack, and rolls himself up on his hands and knees, crowding into aziraphale’s personal space, worried but also relieved when aziraphale doesn’t try to push him away.

“hey.” his hand are tacky from the rain when he holds azi’s face between his hands, but crowley’s grip isn’t an uncomfortable one. “you’re flipping out on me”

azi sniffs miserably. “i am not.”

“you are so. on any other day you would have corporealized your pristine wings to push me off before letting me this close to you outside of uh, situations.” he, quite unwillingly, goes faintly red about the ears, but regathers himself. he smooths a soothing hand over azi’s hair. “but look, here i am, and you’re not freaking out anymore.” he sits back on his heels.

azi takes a breath. he isn’t freaking out anymore, and he’s feeling very put off about it. “sneak.”

crowley preens.

“serpent.”

crowley ditches his lower legs for the length and dramatic curl of a serpent’s body. “you got me.”

aziraphale’s rebellious streak acts up. it’s never really been active this close to a heavenly gathering before, since it developed roughly four hundred years after this point, and when he looks crowley in the eye, crowley straightens, suited pant legs reappearing as he holds a finger up.

“no, aziraphale, whatever you’re thinking, no. don’t you dare.”

“how well,” says aziraphale speculatively, “do you think that He can see us from up there.”

crowley looks around the tree to see where the gargantuan shape of G-d is conversing with some clouds. he answers nervously. “pretty well, i’d assume, given that it’s Himself.”

“i once kept a keycard to a room in heaven in my pocket for the entirety of a conversation with the Metatron, and he’s as close to G-d as it got, in our Then. so answer me, crowley,” it’s hard to keep a handle on the nonchalance, “how well do you think He can see us?”

crowley is looking like someone who very much wants to run away from the conversation, but he’s never been able to resist aziraphale’s train-wreck conversations. his eyes sharpen assessingly.

“i’d imagine not well. he limited himself in that human-ish form, to only be able to see what was in front of him, and things can, i think, block his view. i’d guess that’s how he gets his detail. like layers in a Photoshop.”

“hm.” the danger of the situation fades somewhat at crowley’s assessment, and so the rebellious gleam smarts a little bit, but aziraphale doesn’t drop the grin that spreads across his face, a crowley variant, but with so many revisions, alterations, and improvisations that it’s become its own beast. crowley knows that look. it’s aziraphale’s car wreck of an idea look.

“look, angel, what the fffuc--” aziraphale pulls him forward into an open-mouthed kiss that is likely too much heat for continuing a rational thread. crowley’s knees thunk down from where he’s been squatting in front of az, and he is _immediately,_ by virtue of gravity, in aziraphale’s face. aziraphale laughs at how crow throws one hand out to catch him against the tree while the other holds his sodden shades against his face. crowley freezes, for a second, and azi waits, breathing by rote against crowley’s mouth. crow is tense as a live wire, but after a second, resignation sits him heavy in aziraphale’s lap, a respectable amount of distance between their faces again.

“are you saying,” crowley says, quite unnecessarily, “that your great big rebellious plan is to kiss me senseless up against a tree in the _Garden?”_

azi shrugs, but his eyes are on crowley’s mouth, how his hair, beaded with water, is curling and pulling forwards into his face.

 _“azi_ , we’re adults, with hundreds of years of experience living as ourselves and not giving a damn what Above or Below think-- holy shit Aziraphale, what if we--” azi’s eyebrows tick up. “no, no no you’re right.”

Aziraphale ducks his head to meet crow’s averted eyes and grins. “there. finally. catching my drift.”

crowley physically hides behind his shades, hissing at aziraphale. “what the-- how will we-- Aziraphale!”

aziraphale is laughing at him, his mouth taut with a smugness that drives crowley further into sputters. “logstics! and... surveillance!!”

azi tsks. “just because we never have exercised ourselves ethereally in regards to situations like these, i’m sure we would prove quite capable.”

“you--!!” crowley hits him on the arm through his coat jacket, but his hands come to rest on the warmth of aziraphale’s stomach through his sweater vest. aziraphale, so clearly at the end of his fucking rope with the world and the deity that controls it, laughs at him, and then tilts his chin up and to the side, watching as crowley gets distracted by the broad expanse of his neck.

crowley takes a deep breath through his nose, and then looks into aziraphale’s eyes.

“if anyone asks, this was your idea, and i’d let you join me in Downstairs rather than tell Himself...” his shoulders start shaking, the bark of laughter that cuts through him unnervingly loud in the space, “that we thought it was a good idea...” tears are running down his face as he gasps through his laughter, “in the Garden of Eden...” he’s trying to keep it together, and absolutely failing, “... THREE DAYS after the week of Creation.”

Aziraphale takes that, after a moment’s consideration, as a tentative yes, and fastens his teeth high up on crowley’s neck. crowley grabs at him and curses loudly about being a _fucking cheat, what the fu--_ before remembering his volume and physically stuffing his sleeve into his mouth as Azi tongues smugly at the spot he just bit. Azi pulls back and quirks an eyebrow at him. Crowley pulls off his shades and tucks them into his inside pocket. He leans down, and Azi leans up. they meet at a mismatch in the middle, as they always do, have always done.

It isn’t long before Azi is choking back sounds as Crowley tongues gentle stripes against the roof of his mouth. His hand is holding crowley firmly down to him, and Crowley is gasping already at the buildup of friction as they gradually develop an awareness of the nothing but clothes and layers and friction and _god-_ aziraphale himself has been ready for this for ages, but clothes _have_ to come off now

and crowley is tugging his coat sleeves off his arms, eyes locked on aziraphale, and aziraphale’s coat has long overstayed its welcome, but he has to get his wings through it and he _forgot_ how those muscles could twist if you did that to quickly, _damn,_ but he’s free of it, and even the last (and first) of the world’s sweater vests gets shunted aside as aziraphale tugs it off, and crowley’s clever hands go for his buttons, his serpent’s undershirt already exposed to the rain and the wet and the damp. there’s patches of damp spreading, but they just bleed through tones of crowley’s skin underneath.

and aziraphale, g-d help him, can’t help it, ducks a hand under crowley’s increasingly frustrated ministrations to run his thumb, along the contours of crowley’s chest. crowley as to take a pause because _yes, angel i have a sternum, but i am trying to focus right now,_ but he’s on the bottom button so there’s not much point in complaining. he threads aziraphale’s wings with hardly a help from him and aziraphale is bare-chested in front of him, the two of them a match for each other. and then he’s slipping his hands into aziraphale’s hair, and _g-d in heaven_ , how long has it been with all the research and the fear and the wanting to forget, aziraphale couldn’t say but crowley’s mouth and his chest are familiar havens, and he straightens his legs so crowley’s knees can come down on either side of his legs more easily, and crowley, sensing the change slows down and begins to steer, and they’re both trembling just a bit. and grinning, somewhat, through the kisses, but that’s less of a logistical event.

crowley takes long, slow kisses from aziraphale’s mouth, and aziraphale’s hands on crowley’s thighs tighten and relax in response to the stimulus, but a crick is growing in aziraphle’s back, and for a moment he can think about g-d’s return, of time running out, but crowley feels his distraction, and pulls on the back of his hair, hard, and aziraphale blanks, gasps, half overstimulated already, then scowls at crowley. he puts a hand up, signals a pause between them. crowley stops immediately. az refuses to let himself flush.

“we should stand.”

“what--?” crowley looks a mess, and his eyes follow aziraphale’s mouth.

“if we’re going to go about this properly, i mean.”

“wha-oh.” crowley flushes a deep burgundy at his collarbones. azi watches it trace up his neck. “right.”

crowley has never been an exhibitionist at heart, and azi pats his cheek and adds, “or we could stay sitting under this tree?”

crowley takes a beat, shakes his head. “angel, i’d want you anywhere. if you want the Garden, we’ll do the Garden.” it was the same sort of thinking that had gotten them banned from the Hanging Gardens, really, but aziraphale beams.

“good. olive oil still exists, right?”

crowley chokes on nothing, coughs, and gapes, his neck the reddest azi’s ever seen them. “yes-- wha-- i _suppose_ olive oil still exists. _why do you ask?_ ”

azi shrugs. “tradition, i guess.”

crowley reaches up to where his shades would rest on his face, catches himself, gives Azi a Look, then hides his face in Azi’s neck. “ _christ_. do you want me to summon it or do you?”

azi can’t help a bit of showoffishness. “dear, i think it’ll have to be the both of us, since we’ll be summoning the oil _from the olives.”_

“fuck. right.” at this point crowley just looks resigned.

Aziraphale looks pointedly at his tan corduroys where they show between Crowley’s thighs. i suppose we should probably strip, then.

crowley sighs, a sigh that says, as clearly as verbally, that they might as fucking well. he stands, pulls aziraphale up (Azi takes a second to crack out the kinks in his spine) and begins pulling his undershirt out of his trousers. Azi just watches for a second, captivated, then sees crowley looking at him amusedly, and ducks his head and also begins to strip.

\---

up on the side of the mountain, Hashem Himself is having a lovely conversation with a series of clouds. he’s heard of a persistent weather anomaly several miles from the Garden, likely from a bug he’s been meaning to fix but as of yet hasn’t been able to get out to. the clouds are informing him, that, with it between them and the rest of the storm front, they have an hour or two at most of rain left before they’d be done, not nearly as much as they’d wanted to follow Adam and Eve out of the Garden. the perks of being omnipotent and omnitemporal was that he was simultaneously surprised, unsurprised, and pleased by this, and not-startled to experience the uniquely omnitemporal experience of realizing you had a plan you had already thought of for this exact moment at some point in the future. But he needed the bug fixed. So he pushed off the side of the mountain, legs mainly mist so as not to disturb any of his new creation, until his feet thumped lightly over the wall of the western gate. a couple angels waved, or approximated a wave, or ignored him pointedly, and he let his mind drift over them for a second, a brush of a wind through their collective hair. when he got back, he’d have to check in on the time-displaced angels. decide whether it would do more damage to have them stay or to send them back. there was a limiting human enchantment designed to keep him from doing so, but he could break that in an instant if he tried.  so he headed off to the weatherfront bug, leaving an angel and an ex-angel behind him swearing and sweating over how little olive oil was in each individual olive.

\---

when they finally had enough, and a _goddamned_ coconut shell to put it in, crowley put his hand on azi’s arm.

“one second.” this had been ridiculous from start to finish, but honestly he hadn’t expected things to get annoying or tedious, but it was fine.

“what is it?” azi is contemplating a handful of shrivelled olives. crowley runs a hand through his hair.

“to borrow an azi-ism, i feel the need to state that _one_ , this is absolutely ridiculous, two, i _have_ to ask about logistics, and three, before you start worrying, _yes_ this is absolutely worth it.” he pauses for a moment, then coughs uncomfortably. “also four, i love you. AND five, this is dumb but mainly also i love you.”

aziraphale, the tall bastard, leans down to kiss crowley’s cheek right below his eye (he doesn’t know it, but he had a drop of water there)

“i know. me too.” crowley doesn’t have to question the phrasing. the simplicity of confession is resting on azi’s face. and honestly, the invincibility crowley feels at that lasts barely a moment before morphing into something hotter than molten steel as aziraphale swipes a hand through his hair and says, “just so you know, i was rather imagining myself as--”

“as the one up against a tree?” aziraphale’s flush is annoyingly hard to see, but he can see red at the lighter space at azi’s breastbone. he reaches out to touch it, and azi smacks his hand.

crowley grins. “sorry.”

azi’s face is screwed up against the embarrassment, but the flash of an excited smile shows his teeth. “shut up.” he drops his handful of olives, walks over to the tree.

the fact that aziraphale has to ground out the two words drives crowley to action. it’ll be a bit of maneuvering, but not much, and he has his wing strength to help support this time, so between azi sort of on his thigh, and his wings either braced against the tree or flailing around for balance, as long as Azi’s got one leg on the ground they should be mostly fine. he looks at aziraphale, who’s been watching his critical assessment of the tree with a distinct goofy adoration in his amusement. crowley grins, and azi grins back. crowley picks up the coconut shell amongst the upsetting amount of shrivelled olives, and follows. he takes a moment to warm the oil, though, because he’s an attentive partner and because azi would hit him if he didn’t. when he gets to the tree, azi, his eyes already spacey from the thought of being _fucked_ against a _tree_ in the _Garden of Eden_ with _G-d indirectly in attendance_ and from the pleasant buzz of building overload racing under his skin. crowley sets the coconut around to the side of the tree, and comes back, one hand holding a pool of oil and the other coated liberally.

ready?

he projects a not inconsiderate amount of heat into the word.

azi swallows against a noise, and goes _guh_ , and then tries again.

yes, i think so. yes.


End file.
